"breathe in, breathe out." i whispered to myself as i trained my lungs and mind to work as a team for once.
slowly, my chest started to rise, but then i looked down at my exposed cleavage, and i started to pant again.
'i look like a slut. how could i dress like this? everyone's going to think of me as a bogan; a whore.'
thoughts were splattering like paint colours on the once blank canvas of my mind. blue and green and red and purple and aqua and crimson were all flying freely off brushes and creating the abstract art that controlled me. the art that followed me everywhere.
and much like abstract art, my mind didn't make sense. there was an abundance of colour, and shapes that did not register in some people's minds, and patterns that didn't match up. and much like abstract art, it took a certain type of person to find it art-worthy.
or even beautiful.
tears started to build in the corners of my eyes, and i unwillingly closed my lids, having the droplets trek my face.
i felt like i was just sitting back, letting the two sides of my mind argue with one another. like the one neat, organised side, up against the messy, detached, unrealistic half.
and i bring up art again. one side of my mind was like a pretty painting of a beach, or a model, or maybe a sunset. the colours added up, and the naked eye could recognise what it was. normal people find these paintings beautiful.
and the other half was like graffiti; street art. most people did their best to cover it up. many humans didn't appreciate it, street art is a nuisance to society. just a burden, another thing to stress about. it took a rare individual to shift their view to actually enjoy graffiti. normal people didn't find it beautiful.
ashton was the type of person to find graffiti beautiful, i often had to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and wait for him to take another picture to capture the mater piece. i didn't think much of it, it was a common thing to come across. i didn't think much of graffiti until i literally compared my fucking mental illnesses to it.
i guess my wheezing was heard to an ongoing pedestrian, because there was a knock on my door.
the knock brought me away from abstract art to the reality of a situation-a janitorial closet backstage of one direction's show. 4:56pm. milan, italy.
the knock was too casual to be from a stranger, the knock radiated a calm and educated person, this person obviously knew what was going on. this person knew it was me in the closet.
"y-yes?" i tried my best to sound okay, but the first sound my mouth made my voice cracked.
"aria? open the door?" it was michael.
i reluctantly clicked the doorknob, revealing me innocently looking up at him, my last tear sliding off my chin.
"what's up, buttercup?" he whispered warmly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"i'm scared, mikey,"
"of what?"
"everything." i took a shaky breath, and sat down, patting the spot next to me. "god, i really could use some alcohol right now."
"i got some pot." he reached into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a big fat bag of weed, almost making my eyes sparkle.
michael always seemed to have what i needed at the perfect times.
"paper?" i asked with a slight
chuckle, as he silently pulled out our cigarette papers, and a filter.
he rolled my a great looking blunt, and then did the same for himself, and lit it.
"god." i groaned as i took the first hit. "this is great. last time i smoked was a year and a half ago, when i still had you as my dealer.
"what can i say? marijuana seems to follow me."
michael did some complicated tricks with his smoke, as i failed to even smoke o's.
"aria, your skill level seemed to have drop." he cackles.
i laughed loudly, taking another long inhale of the canabis.
minuets passed, the small closet filled will the catching-up-chatted, and more blunts rolled.
hit after hit, i reached a whole new level of stoned. "i'm too high, man."
michael seemed to of been more sober, but that was coming from me, who was pissed. "you'll pull through, buddy."
"mhm." i flutter my eyes closed and breathed in the nice smelling air.
"this shit right here, yeah?" michael questions.
"yeah." i murmured, enjoying my state far from sober. "why can't life feel like life right now?"
"because it's life."
"true."
eventually the conversation faded, and so did the tips of our blunts.
"give me your perfume." michael demanded.
he then sprayed the entire room and us, then handing me a piece of mint gum.
"shit, dude. i have a show in like, 20 minuets." he starts to laugh really hard.
i checked the time on my phone, revealing the time. 5:40.
"michael, you have an hour and 20 minuets." i started to die of fits and giggles, finding this the funniest thing in the world.
his face looked so confused for a good 10 seconds before joining in on my laughed.
"go wash up, bro. you can't preform right now." he patted my back.
"i'm not preforming."
"oh."
hi its been a while
soz luls
lets leave it at that
this chapter is based off real life experiences with michael clifford
leave me feedback pls
thnx
